Son of a FOB

This poem was written in jest and is not to be taken seriously.

Hey, you, Son of a FOB

This song’s for you while we steal your job.

This country’s adopted son

Outwardly your culture you may shun,

But secretly you like Tikka Masala

And movies of Rani and Aishwarya

You grew up twirling your Dad’s chest hair

And now you leave him in Old Age Care,

Shaving your own chest

With Silicon in your breast.

You might as well wear bangles

And cut off the peanut that dangles

Between your shaved silky legs

And start laying eggs.

Goras call you “Washer”

Desis call you “Wiper”

Even in the bathroom you are confused

Coz when you asked for a brain, even God refused.

You suck at cricket and baseball too

About business you don’t have a clue.

You are a shame to Genetic Code

As your parent’s tricks, you couldn’t download.

Oh what a waste of the Desi mind

Coz of all of you ABCD kind.

Confused you will always be

And never can draw your Family Tree.